GHOST FAINT IMAGES

I appear to have spent this afternoon changing the following words into different combinations, ghost faint images into faint ghost images and I have reached the point where I can no longer decide which is the better. The drawer beckons for that particular quandary. I had been reading something about how photographs will fade over the centuries and leave blank shiny paper. Given the present state of dubious narratives, false news and outright lies the poem was an easy write. 

PROPAGANDA

The photos presented problems

having been badly curated

and too quick to fade

to a yellowing cream blankness

We were forced to trace the outlines

of the faint ghost images

with fine graphite sticks

which slipped on the slick surface

As we attempted to harness the past

to justify our political position

Even if I can decide the order of the words: faint; ghost; and images I am unsure that the poem is finished. As I say one for the drawer.

I've been listening to the expanded edition of A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, my original album is worn out. Such a classic. 

Until next time.

THE FOUNTAIN FALLS

I had an interesting conversation with a friend this week who raised the point that in the last post's poem there was a need for editing or punctuation. She said there could be some confusion in the penultimate stanza. We talked about the alternatives and I thought the solution was to remove the confusing two words. Here it is in its completed state.

3:30 am IN TALLINN

he wakes into a dream

there is stillness

light

no one is about

yet the fountain falls

perhaps with less pressure

than it had in the dark rain

he wonders when he will wake for real

returns to the large lonely bed to practice sleep

I have to thank Nel for her observation and highlight that collaboration is always a positive process. This poem is now complete.

I was at Tropical Pressure last weekend and was thoroughly impressed by Diabel Cissokho. He is touring at the moment and I cannot recommend him highly enough.

Until next time.  

HITS, HEADLINES & IDLE SPECULATION

Have you watched any of those biographical films that seem to be being made with increasing regularity these days? Films that purport to tell the story of a musician who has died? I've watched a couple over the last year and the experience has prompted me to write this.

we should know better

but we gather round the flat screen

while a life we think we know

through hits and headlines and idle speculation

and where we were when we heard they’d died

is played out before our eyes

The actors get the set pieces perfect

follow the live footage

better than we remember

but the director has their own ideas

and the script has been negotiated through

the demands of all of those who outlived the subject

we know better but still we watch

as if hoping for a different outcome

On both occasions when I began to watch I said to myself that this will not be my sort of film but I persevered anyway. Neither was. We all have our own idea of a narrative and to make a film you have to ensure that none of the people involved who are still alive are libelled so the film must walk a changing line. I think the poem needs a title, any ideas? 

I'm looking forward to seeing Iron and Wine in Bristol in a couple of weeks. His new album is well worth a listen.

Until next time.    

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

I ran a poetry workshop this week in Kingkerswell Library and I'd like to thank the people who attended and made it such an enjoyable morning. Thank you. This poem was begun in that workshop.

THE NEAR HORIZONS OF A SMALL TOWN

By Widnes Bus Garage

a mock Tudor pub

we never went in the bar

too full of bus drivers and mechanics

talking tickets, fare stages

bemoaning bus stop politics

But the snug had a jukebox

famous amongst our crowd

you stocked it with imports

to maximise income

you’d figured out the angles

rode the 70s for what they were worth

I imagine you today

balder

older

slightly embittered

at how it all turned out

it’s all rubble now

so much flat waste land

As you can see it still has many miles to go before it is able to stand on its own two feet and go out into the world. What I have not been able to do, so far, is to complete the narrative of the individual I am thinking of. The specific manner in which their life changed. 

This next poem is a redrafting. Actually I have removed a line which I think makes the poem read better. You can read the last version here.

INTERSECTION

the sun is in my eyes

but the rain falls

it’s one of those days

showers

and a winter angled sun that blinds

so the wedding party

appear to materialise

out of the glare

in small groups

impossible heels that

click click click towards you

dressed to the nines

coats held over hairdos

I should not be surprised

the bells have made announcements

and here on the cracked pavement

our lives intersect

and just like that diverge again

Once again thanks to the Secret Poets for their invaluable insights.

Sachal Vasandani has a new single out. 

Until next time.

TEMPORARY GENTLEMAN

I've been working on this poem for a while. It is based on a memory that just  popped into my head one morning. I can't remember the circumstances that led to the fitter I was working with as an apprentice, telling me about his National Service but the dilemma he faced that night stayed with me.

THE CLASS STRUGGLE

a synapse sparks unbidden

sets the memory unrolling

and I am back in the 70s

an apprentice working with a fitter

old enough to be my father

he’s telling me about his national service how

I spent it guarding Vulcan bombers in Yorkshire

and me a time served tradesmen

fully indentured but the RAF needed security

for the new super weapon

it wasn’t a bad billet and

the sergeant told me that

no one enters that hanger

not even your grey haired old mother God bless her

because it’s top bloody secret that’s why

and I’ll have your bloody balls on toast

if you bloody defy me and

it wasn’t a bad billet save

for that one night when a temporary gentlemen

[that’s was how they referred to conscripted officers]

rocked up and demanded to be let into the hanger

looking down his nose at me all received pronunciation

getting redder in the face and

then it was get out of my way

I’ll have you on a charge so I moved

and then I hit him with the butt of my revolver

did I mention we were armed guards

the officer went down like a sack of spuds and

there was hell to pay

I barely escaped a glass house holiday

never knew what became of that temporary gentleman

never saw a Vulcan either only on the television

years and years later and

he threw his dog end away

it had stopped raining

so we left the shelter of the pipe bridge

and went back to whatever we were doing before the rain

This is a rough draft. The Vulcan bomber was part of the UKs nuclear deterrent. It was a rather elegant shape. I am sure that the poem will change and I think that it is worth persevering with. Watch this space.

Here's Baba Maal.

Until next time.

CAT POEMS

Here are a couple of little poems inspired by my cats. Sadly both of them are no more but their memory lives on.

cat out the attic window

walking the ridge tiles

he always was a clumsy bugger

and I can imagine him slipping off

so I stand stock still until

he is back inside

been there done that

where’s the food

and we who simply watch

are left to deal with our own stuff

This really happened. One day the cat strolled out of the attic window and onto the roof, needless to say I was more distressed than he was. This second poem is about the joy of having a cat sitting on your lap.

the calmness of cats

sat on your lap

relaxed

boneless

purring

vibrations to heal your soul

 I was given a new album by Manel recently and so I leave you with a song.

Until next time.

DRIVE THE BUS BY PROXY

I've been cat sitting for my daughter in London and his has enabled me to take in the culture. I've been travelling by bus more than I usually do and was prompted to write this week's poem about my travels. When I was a child I used to always try and sit on the top deck of the bus at the front, over the driver, so as to see what they see and to imagine I was driving the bus. 

When I get a bus ticket I always look at the ticket number to see if they total 21, if they do then it's a lucky day! When I showed this poem to the Secret Poets they had never heard of this superstition. I searched on line for references and could only come up with one. Apparently Matt Wharmby, reminded the blogger of the practice of adding up the numbers at the top of the ticket, (this was unique to each ticket), thanks Matt.

BUS POEM

heres to all the people who rush upstairs

to sit at the front of the bus

who want from on high

to see what the drivers sees

who drive the bus by proxy

there can only be one winner

for that seat of majesty

so here’s hoping the runner’s up tickets 

all add up to 21 in the ticket number lottery

that way their day

will be granted mystery

The poem is just a light slice of whimsy. May you all get a ticket that totals 21!

Here's a new band I heard about this week, Kingfishr.

Until next time.

DELIGHTING THE DOLPHINS

On Friday last I spent the day with the Secret Poets. What joy! Thank you Secrets for such a splendid and productive day. This is a poem revised with their help. You can read the previous version here.

Crossing The Teign With The Window Down

it was love at first note

the wind and the bass solo eloped

straight out of my car

[I was crossing the bridge at the time

but this is their story not mine]

seven miles out bopping on the sea

the notes rearrange as they please

delighting the dolphins with their atonality

It's always interesting listening to what other people make of your work. There was some confusion as to the identity of those eloping. I hope this version makes it clearer. Here is another revision. You can read the earlier draft here.

the well at the world’s end

she had walked to the edge of her world

it took as long as you’d expect

and was as difficult as it sounds

at the world’s edge

she found her holy well

truth be told

the people who drew their water

from it everyday

saw it in a different way

but kept their own counsel

grant each of us the eyes we need in this life

Again the changes hopefully improve clarity. Plus the layout is tidier. Thank you Secrets.

Here's some reggae. I was listening to Merger's one and only album yesterday. Wondrous stuff. Here's them live on the BBC.

And this is the full LP.

Until next time.

A FACE HALF GLIMPSED

I have been struggling this week with ideas that have [so far] led nowhere. Life can be like that. I mean who would have thought this time last week that on Wednesday I'd be branded an enemy of enterprise? But that's how the latest [unelected] Prime Minister referred to all people who happen not to be right wing libertarians. But enough of the tory doomsday death cult.

Here's a rewrite. I am compiling a new collection and revising poems as I go. You can read the earlier version here.

Disinfestation

before the house sale was agreed

buyers demanded the ghosts be removed

so contractors were appointed

the workers arrived to divest the property

loading reluctant spectres into sealed skips

driving them away to wherever unwanted memories languish

that ambushing taste on the tongue

a face half glimpsed in the crowd

the 4am telephone that rings and rings and rings

As you can see the poem is more compact and now composed of three stanzas. I think it more effective. If you would like to know more about my new collection contact me.

I've been listening to a lot of Fela Kuti this week. He was a man who had to deal with a series of unreasonable governments.

Until next time.

MY OUTLANDISH CONFESSION

Another revised poem this post. I was not happy with the previous version, you can read that here. I discussed it with the Secret Poets and they helped clarify my misgivings.

The classic murder mystery continues to disappoint

My book is read once again

I must walk through the head of the reader

and overhear to their thoughts

The author may deploy

sleight of hand

far fetched coincidences

then withhold vital information

until the final chapter

We are gathered in the library

yes it smacks of desperation I know

shamed as I am by my exposure

my outlandish confession

the other characters look away

And you dear reader sigh

think how trite the ending is

But hold on one moment

is any better constructed

I think it has a clearer narrative now and I have removed the last line. Time for it to go away again for another couple of months.

Here's Anna Ternheim and Johnossi.

Until next time.

SCRAPS OF TIME

Tropical Pressure was great fun, and my workshop was well attended and I'd like to thank the people who worked so hard. I'd also like to thank Antonia for inviting me back. On the Thursday night I dreamed a poem and managed, miraculously to recall it the next morning. I do occasionally wake in the night with the makings of a poem in my head and I usually get up and write them down. This time though I managed to hold on to the words until the next day.

scraps of time

occasionally he finds discarded scraps of time

retrieves them from their hiding places

rotting wainscoting he is replacing

gently he flattens the newsprint

takes in the date

the prices in the adverts

reads the television page

then smiles at the distance he's come

It is based on a friend of mine who used to be a carpenter and when he was removing some skirting he did find an old newspaper that had been used as packing. It is definitely a work in progress.

Here is some Spirit to keep you going. 

Until next time.

EYELESS IN AUTUMN

I have spent the last two weeks cat sitting for my daughter in London, hence no photographs of the latest Ryley Walker concert. I wrote the last two post in advance as I tend to do when I am away. I travelled to London by train and as I approached Wellington, near Taunton in Somerset, I saw an abandoned factory with most of the glass missing from the windows. This set me thinking...

summer project

we broke all the glass

in all the windows

no one stopped us

it took time

but the sounds were so addictive

the crack and cascade of glass

eyeless in autumn

the snow went wherever it would

when summer cam round again

there was nothing to show it had ever been there

The poem wrote itself. I liked the idea of the building leaving no trace, although the hardest lines to write were the last couplet. I suspect it is complete.

Ryley Walker was amazing, on top form, just wonderful. But I leave you with a new single by wondrous Pollyanna.

Until next time.

THROUGH SECRET EYEHOLES

I wrote this poem in my head as I drove along the A38. It started life as the locked room mystery but Raymond Chandler's essay on The Simple Art of Murder popped into my head and I ran with that.

Denouement

The classic country house murder mystery disappoints.

The author may deploy sleight of hand

far fetched coincidences

then withhold vital information

until the final chapter

when we are gathered in the library.

It all smacks of desperation as we characters

have our individual shames exposed

so the detective can dismiss us in turn.

How we squirm at the way we are written

at the outlandish confessions we must make

and you dear reader, as I gaze on your face

through the secret eyeholes hidden in the e’s of my lines

sigh.

But hold on one minute

can you tell me if your life is any better constructed

than I am out of my sentences?

It is a piece of nonsense. I always think, when I see any crime show revelation, how much I would hate having my life held up to scrutiny, especially as it is only designed to show off how clever the detective is.

On a more serious note I must say I am appalled at the overturning of Roe v Wade. It is always the womans choice. How dare anyone sit in judgement over another person's body? As Leonard Cohen said: I have seen the future brother, and it's murder.

I leave you with the man and the song.

Until next time.

BETTER DAYS

I was unsure about posting this poem as I think it says more than it shows, however, I shall let you decide.

better days

I returned to the scene of my first wedding night

like some voyeuristic thief who must convince himself

that he has really got away scot-free

the hotel had long gone replaced by a car park

so I supposed the only physical memory

was the coat hanger I had taken away with me

you were missing of course

I walked streets 

past closed shops

stood on the beach

the wind raised waves of fine sand

until it combined with the rain

to send us all in doors again

the cracked pavement 

a broken mirror

reflecting the street lights up to the stars

There's not much to say about it as I think the poem contains the background. I wanted it to sound weary.

Annabelle Chvostek was performing recently in Montevideo, I wish I'd been there!

Until next time.